


Chasing The Night

by backitup_baby



Series: Here Comes Trouble [2]
Category: Batwoman (Comic), DCU - Comicverse, Glee, The Question (Comics)
Genre: F/F, the questions are beginning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-28
Updated: 2012-07-28
Packaged: 2017-11-10 22:15:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/471282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/backitup_baby/pseuds/backitup_baby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Even perpetual shitholes like Gotham City and the GCPD need to be wiped up every once in a while. And I figure I'm the woman to do it -- my way. That means no bullshit costumes, because if people are gonna believe in someone, they gotta be able to see their face. And no working outside the law, otherwise everyone's gonna think they can get away with the kind of shit our 'caped crusaders' get away with. </i>
</p><p>  <i>So yeah… maybe I hate superheroes. </i></p><p><i>It wasn't like I </i>meant<i> to hook up with one. It was an </i>accident<i>, I swear.</i></p><p>In which Officer Santana Lopez comes to terms with the fact that the woman she's seeing is a superhero.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chasing The Night

It’s not that I _hate_ ‘superheroes’. It’s just that the ones we have are bullshit.

I mean, at least Superman’s actually able to do superhuman stuff. He has heat ray vision, or whatever it is he does when those red beams come out of his eyes. I’ve only seen it on TV, so sue me if I don’t know exactly what the fuck he’s doing. He seems like a good enough guy, at least, and he gets shit done.

The ones we have in Gotham, though? From what I can tell, they’re just idiots in costumes with fancy toys, thinking they’re above the law. Do you know how many times Batman’s broken the law? He’s got an outstanding record in the office for breaking and entering, property damage, fleeing the scene of the crime, assault… I could go on for days. 

Yeah, I know, I’ve heard the arguments. We have ‘supervillains’, so we need ‘superheroes’ to take care of them. 

No. That’s fucking bullshit. 

When I was growing up, the only heroes I saw were my fucking parents. It wasn’t easy, you know, growing up in the East End of Gotham City. You can take the difficulty factor inherent in that and multiply it by like, twenty. That’s how hard it was for my parents, raising three kids there. And three-fourths of they made got fucking stolen. Who stole it, you ask? Let’s take a look.

The Crooks I Grew Up With:

  * Gotham fucking City itself. Do you know how much taxes cost in this god damn town?
  * The literal crooks of the East End. These assholes are all the same. Petty thieves who make a living ruining good people’s lives for profit. 
  * The dirty ass cops of the good old GCPD. Yeah, they’d answer when you called 911. Then they’d show up, confiscate all the shit the crooks stole, and keep it for themselves. No, like, I’ve literally seen it happen. This douche put the money _in his fucking pocket._ There isn’t anything else I hate more than the fucking Gotham City Police Department.



You’re probably saying to yourself now: Why the fuck did this bitch join the squad, then?

Well, you see, even perpetual shitholes like Gotham City and the GCPD need to be wiped up every once in a while. And I figure I’m the woman to do it – my way. That means no bullshit costumes, because if people are gonna believe in someone, they gotta be able to see their face. And no working outside the law, otherwise everyone’s gonna think they can get away with the kind of shit our ‘caped crusaders’ get away with. 

So yeah… maybe I hate superheroes. 

It wasn’t like I _meant_ to hook up with one. It was an _accident_ , I swear.

–

Quinn Fabray calls me when I’m at the office, writing up my report on the Joker’s latest stunt. I’m grateful for the excuse to send the call straight to voicemail. I mean, it’s not like I even know what to say to her. 

I’m not one-hundred-percent sure that it was her I saw. But ninety-five-percent is good enough. She had her hair down loose, for God’s sake. She isn’t subtle or anything. And that stupid batcostume doesn’t exactly leave much to the imagination, and lucky for me, I was able to spend some of last night getting to know that body. 

Not that we did it or anything. But I may have ‘accidentally’ copped a few feels in my sleep. And watched her change into her jammies while I was supposed to be looking away. No big deal.

The real kicker, though, is that Batwoman’s been active for approximately four and a half weeks. I should know; I’ve been at most of the crime scenes. And one night, she got punched in the face. What do you know, but the next day I meet Quinn fucking Fabray in the waiting room at the hospital, her nose all taped up. I figured it was like, some nose job thing. You know, the kind of thing those rich society girls do on a whim when they’re bored after looking in the mirror at themselves all day long. 

There’s also that voice of hers. I guess she tries to disguise it, kind of, when she’s Batwoman. She makes it deeper and does this growl kind of thing when she talks. But she needs to work on it, because now that I think about it, it definitely sounds like Quinn’s natural speaking voice. I guess I should let her know, or something. I may not be interested anymore, but I don’t want her death on my conscience if someone puts two and two together, just like me, and takes her out.

**work on your voice. too obvious it’s u**

I manage to get three and a half sentences done for my report before my phone buzzes again.

_Really? Should I try to lower it more?_

Seriously? She’s clueless. 

**so it was you then, earlier**

I get a paragraph done, this time, before I have to check my phone.

_I don’t know what you’re talking about._

I wait then, and manage to get all of my report done and turned in to the Commissioner, before looking at my phone again. 

Nothing.

She’s pretty much confirmed that it _is_ her, then.

I stare at my phone for a moment, wondering what to do next, before I remember that I’m on the job right now, we’re not supposed to use our personal phones here, and Quinn Fabray doesn’t need to be anything else than an almost-one night stand. I turn my phone off, then shove it in my pocket. 

–

It’s a fucking relief to be back home. I’m not scheduled for tonight, so I actually get to relax for a change. I call in a pizza delivery from the kitchen, then turn around to go back to the living room, when I see her. 

Batwoman – Quinn – is standing on the fucking _fire escape_ , all nonchalant like this is how _everyone_ visits their friends. 

Things Quinn Fabray Would Have Had To Do To Get On The Fire Escape:

  * Figure out where I live. Stalker.
  * Get that stupid ass costume on. Have I mentioned that the mask doesn’t even cover most of her face? Dumb.
  * Climb up ten flights of my building. Or, alternatively, start from the roof and then climb down twenty.
  * Stand there like a creeper. 



I really should call my partner. Or like, everyone at the office on night shift. She’s got some fucking nerve, coming here, and I’d be hailed a hero for bringing in the Batwoman.

Instead, I go over to the window and, like a dipshit, let her inside.

“Hi,” she says, her voice all growly, before saying then, in her regular tone, “Was that better?”

She can’t be serious with this. She has to be fucking kidding. “You came all this way just to see if your new Batwoman voice is _better_?”

“What am I _supposed_ to do? We needed to talk. You’re the only one who knows, besides Batman and Robin, and – if you tell anyone, I’ll –”

“You’ll what?” This is so ridiculous. I put a hand on my hip, conveniently near to where I keep my gun, and give her a hard glare. “What’s in it for me to keep your deviant behavior a secret? Because I’m pretty sure that I could find some technicality about how concealing your ‘secret identity’ is probably against the law.” An uncertain look falls over her face, or at least, as much as I can see of her face. I smirk then, because it’s so clear she doesn’t have this shit fully figured out yet.

“Just – I’m trying to help.” She keeps looking at me, and even though I can’t really see her eyes (there’s like, these weird cloudy looking things over the eyeholes. I assume she can see out, but no one can see in. It’s actually pretty clever) I can tell I’ve got the upper hand, here.

“Well, you aren’t. _All_ of you caped idiots think you’re helping, but you trudge through all our crime scenes, ruining at least half of the evidence every time –”

I’m actually shocked when she interrupts me. “Like you and your gang of cops can stand up to the villains we have in this batshit crazy town?” 

“Nice pun.” I can’t help but say it.

“Don’t,” she says, her voice taking on more of a dangerous tone, now. “I didn’t see anyone complaining when Batman put the Joker away in Arkham –”

“Yeah, and how long did he stay there?” I interject. “He was out like, the next weekend.” I raise my eyebrows at her and allow a self-satisfied smile to appear on my face, even though she’s right – we’ve been trying to contain the Joker for as long as I’ve been on the squad. And because she’s right, I have to come up with something else to piss her off. “I’d bet anything that Batman actually let him out himself, just so he could haul him in again and play at being a hero.” I pause, then add, “Pussy.”

Quinn gasps, which would be adorable if she weren’t wearing such a ridiculously offensive costume. “Don’t,” she says again, and stalks closer to me so she’s only a few inches away. “Don’t you dare.”

“Or what?” I bluster, staring up at her. Damn her for being a little taller. “What are you going to do? Sic little Robin on my ass?”

“Here’s how this is going to go,” Quinn snarls, her voice dropping down into the growly Batwoman voice she likes to use. I’m not sure if it’s on purpose. “I’m going to leave. We’re not going to talk to each other again, because clearly I was an idiot to think –” She pauses for a moment, and before I can even open my mouth to ask, ‘think what?’ she’s talking again. “You,” she says firmly, poking me with her index finger, “are going to tell _no one._ ”

And then she reaches for something on her belt and my vision blacks out.

–

She’s right, which is fucking annoying, I think to myself later after the smoke clears and I’m left alone in my apartment. And the most annoying thing is, I don’t even know why I’m keeping the secret of a woman who wants nothing to do with me.

–

About a month or so goes by. Five weeks and a day, if you want to be precise, but I don’t know why you’d care for that level of specificity. Either way, I don’t hear or see from Quinn Fabray at all during that period of time.

Of course, Batwoman and I have our run-ins – plenty of them. She’s there, crouching in the corner like some oversized wombat, when I arrive at a drug bust. Another night, she knocks on the window, interrupting me while I’m talking to some parents of an abductee. Then, next to her, is the kid I’m looking for.

I have to admit: she’s getting better at this.

However, all those times, we never talked to each other. I let the other guys on the squad handle that, as much as I could. We don’t actually exchange words or anything until the Incident. And here’s how it starts.

–

I’m sitting in the station, feet up on my desk while I clean my gun, when the call comes in. Killer Croc is on stage at the Gotham Theatre, the frantic voice on the phone says, and at first I think they mean the artsy fartsy hipsters who run that place have decided to put on some lame ass theatre production about the huge crocodile man who likes to terrorize Gotham. But then I realize that he’s actually on stage when she yells something about how he’s eating someone’s arm. 

We pile into the car and head over as soon as we can. It’s easy enough when you have sirens on the top of your roof, of course. And just like always, whenever I’m at a scene, things get a little hazy. We run in and half the guys work on evacuating all the civilians while the rest of us work on surrounding Killer Croc. But it’s kind of pointless right now because he has one of the actors around the throat and even after all my years on the force, I have to force myself to ignore the nausea that wells in my stomach when I see the wound on his arm. 

Despite myself, I find myself hoping that someone thought to put the Bat-Signal on.

“You don’t want them,” the Commissioner’s busy saying, and I turn my head to stare over at his stupid big mustache while he talks. “Come on. Let them go.”

Killer Croc cocks his head, baring his weird fangs in what has to be the weird reptilian equivalent of a smirk. “Only for a trade.” And when none of us say anything, he digs his claws into the guy’s side and twists. Fuck.

“Let him go,” I hear myself say, to my own surprise. That gets everyone’s attention, and with the cops plus Croc and his hostage staring at me, I almost wonder if I can take it back. But I can’t. “Come on. Let him go. Wouldn’t you rather have a cop to play with?”

Croc stares at me for a moment, his claws still in the guy, before abruptly withdrawing them and shoving the hostage at the Commissioner. And then, before I even know what’s happening, he has me instead. He tips my head back and runs a claw along my neck and I bite my tongue, hard, to stop myself from screaming. 

But the thing is, this idiot didn’t think to make sure I couldn’t move my arms. 

“Pretty girl,” he hisses into my ear, and I force myself to keep breathing steadily. My gun is on my left side, and I wonder if I can get to it without him noticing. With his mouth so close to my head, though, there isn’t room to be sloppy. He tightens his arm around me, so strong that I can’t breathe anymore. The room goes blurry; I can see all the cops with their guns out and up, but I know they can’t get a clear shot. My head feels faint. Everything starts to get dark. And I manage to think to myself, this is it? Choked to death by a fucking overgrown freak? 

Then, all of a sudden the pressure on my chest is gone and I almost fall to the ground. Like some clumsy ass new kid, I practically do a somersault on the stage, trying to turn around and see what happened, all while reaching for my gun. 

And then I see _her_ pinning Killer Croc to the ground. She has these new gloves on, the kind that go almost all the way up to her elbows with dangerous spike things, and she reaches for her utility belt and starts tying his arms up at the wrist. 

I’m shaking, I realize, when I try to lift my gun up just in case he breaks free and notice I can’t hold it straight. And it probably isn’t the right time to think about shit like this, but it’s kind of hot knowing she can bind someone up like that. 

–

I’m treated at Gotham Central overnight, because the Commissioner says I need ‘rest’ or whatever, and I get to go the next afternoon. I get a cab at the door and I guess I must still be a little out of it because I’m actually surprised when I realize he’s pulled to a stop in front of Quinn’s place, not mine.

“You’re not dead,” she says, all deadpan and shit, when she answers the door. 

I shrug, forgetting the bruising on my upper chest, and try to surpress a wince. “I’ve taken worse.” She backs away from the door, into her apartment, and I follow.

Once we’re standing in her living room, Quinn shoots me an uncertain look for a second before smiling slightly. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

Really? This is the reception I get? “You condescending bitch,” I say and turn to leave. And really, what did I think was going to happen by showing up here?

She’s fast, though, and reaches out to put a hand on my back before I can open the door on my way out. “I’m sorry,” Quinn says, her voice a little quieter. And then, in a whisper: “I’m glad you’re not dead.”

Well, I guess that’s nice.

“I’m glad I’m not dead either,” I say, but I don’t turn around. Not yet.

There’s some silence before she speaks up again. “Will you stay?” And right now I’m glad I’m not facing her, because she sounds like she’s probably pouting and I don’t think I could deal with that. 

The truth is, she kind of saved my life. 

“I’m hungry,” I finally say. “Think we can order pizza?”

When she laughs at that, it kind of sounds like she’s pretty close to crying.

–

I stay the night. And no, nothing _happened_ ; I’m all banged up, after all. But she’s a damned good kisser and as long as I don’t have to move my neck too much, it’s all right. After breakfast I tell her I need to get home and sort some stuff out; she’s fine with that, which is great. The last thing I need right now is some clingy chick.

Quinn even drives me home, too, in that swank ass car I pulled her over in a few months ago. I don’t really know how it happens, but we end up holding hands on the way, too.

She leans over and kisses me, then smiles. I promise to call her, and I mean it this time. She asks if I need help getting up to my apartment and I tell her I got an elevator so it’s no problem.

The thing is, if she comes up with me she’ll probably end up staying, and we both got a lot going on. Whatever’s going on between us, we both know that we should take it slow.

I get up to my apartment without any problems and, once the door’s closed, head straight to the couch and sit down heavily. That’s when I see it: a piece of paper neatly folded on my coffee table. 

I reach out and pick it up, half-expecting it to be a note from Quinn left while I was in the hospital. It’s definitely a note; that much is obvious when I unfold it. But it’s not signed.

_Are you ready?_


End file.
